The Ability to See
by junejuly15
Summary: A revelation for Sherlock and John. Sherlock cannot use his deducting skills, he is somehow troubled annoying John along the way. Can be seen as a 'heureka moment' for both of them. Insecurity, comfort, friendship, slash if you want


This is my first story, so I'm a bit nervous and would be glad for some reviews. Please excuse inaccuracies, but English is not my first language..

The characters of course belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC's Sherlock, I don't own anything

**The Ability to See**

**I  
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_All I want is to relax, to sleep, although it's only transport, although I'm in the middle of a case, although it would be normal_. Sherlock was exhausted, he was stuck in a case, no more deductions to be had…for the moment. He looked up, saw all the normal people going about their normal things. Anderson, good old, infuriating, ignorant Anderson_. I'm sure he sleeps like a baby, untroubled by a mind that cannot find a rest_. Anderson, finding oblivion with Donovan…. Oh no, now that was something he didn't want to start contemplating …far too disturbing. He tried to concentrate, tried to read something from the corpse in front of him, mutilated, defenseless …. Dammit, it was no use, he couldn't. He felt Lestrade glance at him from the side, frowning, clearly wondering why he didn't rattle off his observations and brilliant deductions as usual. _What is it? What's bothering me?_ Lack of sleep or rather deprivation of sleep, no, he was used to it, he even prided himself not to need it while working…but still…In the back of his mind an image flashed. He saw himself at home, relaxing (what an improbable thought) and there was John. John, his flatmate , for quite some time now really. _Odd, I never thought of him as relaxing…_ John, who smoothed over Sherlock's rough edges when he had antagonized other people yet again. Sherlock was quite aware of this fact, quite aware that he was somewhat lacking in social skills. John, who was a good soul, troubled too. Where was he? Where was John?

Sherlock had left in a hurry when Lestrade texted him and asked him to come down to the river where they had found this young woman. John had been out and Sherlock had been quite hesitant to leave without him, so used had he become to John's unobtrusive presence, but Lestrade was adamant he should come at once. And now he was here, so tired, his mind blocked. He couldn't find anything useful to say to the waiting policemen, to Lestrade , to the smirking Anderson. 'I'm sorry', Sherlock managed and stumbled away from the corpse. 'I can't believe that, he's wasting our time again', Donovan snapped and turned to Lestrade who watched Sherlock leave in disbelief.

* * *

><p><strong>II<strong>

'Sherlock?'. John bounded up the stairs to the living room, expecting his flatmate to be in the course of some distasteful experiment including eyes or a severed head or any other body parts provided to him by Molly. Oh Molly, John thought, if only you could see that Sherlock wasn't interested in anything else but bruises forming on dead bodies or how quickly body temperatures drop instead of noticing those cheeks flushing deeply by the sight of his tall flatmate. How odd, John thought, I'm still amazed how ignorant he is of some things, things so obvious to everybody else.

When he reached the landing and entered the living room, leaving his jacket on the landing as he did so, he saw that Sherlock was out, must have left in a hurry in fact, judging by the mess he had left behind on the living room floor. Bloody typical, John thought, presumes me to clear up all the mess he leaves behind. He also expects me to clear up emotional chaos when he has been obnoxious to other people. Expects me to tolerate his foul moods, his insults, expects me to keep contact to the normal world while all he cares about is his work. _I'm married to my work, without work my brain rots_.Well, yes, John could see it clearly, could see his flatmate growing restless when a case was nowhere in sight, no brainwork for him to be done. He'd noticed that Sherlock had been quite restless over the last few days, shuffling about the flat, sometimes watching him from the side as if trying to deduce something, being quite insufferable…. But now Sherlock was out, so Lestrade might have contacted him, might have given him something to think over.

John sat down, exhausted, it had been a long day at the surgery and Sarah had been snappy, to say the least. He didn't know where this was going to lead. Nowhere, he feared. - Or didn't he? Now, that was new. Sarah and him, that had been a given, hadn't it? John felt sad, he thought his life had been finally going somewhere, somewhere nearer to normal. Normal. That was Sarah, Sarah with her nice smile, her way of distracting him, but not quite. He realized that he had never been very close to her, there had always been something hovering between them…

'John?' Sherlock ran up the stairs and into the living room, John jumped up from his chair, startled. 'Where have _you_ been? ', Sherlock demanded brusquely as a way of greeting 'I needed your assistance at the crimescene'. 'You can't be serious', John replied, 'I'm a doctor , you know. I was at the surgery, of course'. Sherlock frowned ' But how can you when I need you in a case? '. John was incredulous 'You must be joking. Even a brilliant mind like yours must acknowledge that I have to earn my living'. John was surprised how annoyed he was with Sherlock, how he suddenly resented being a 'given' for him. He didn't want to be taken for granted, not by Sherlock. Sherlock sensed that somehow he had insulted John, though he really couldn't see why. Stupid, he thought. Why can't I see? First at the crime scene, now here with John. Sherlock took off his scarf and his coat and put both on the hook at the door. He took his time, trying to figure out John. He asked again, this time in a more moderate tone. 'Where have you been, John? '.'I told you, I was at the surgery. Working with Sarah, you really cannot expect me to sit around with you until a case comes up'. John couldn't keep his annoyance from his voice. Sherlock quickly glanced at him. 'Obviously, you are mad at me', was all he managed, then he was quiet again.

He couldn't read John, couldn't deduce anything from his behaviour. He went into the kitchen, pretending to make some tea. Who am I trying to fool here, he thought, I don't want tea any more than I want to do household chores. It's a sad excuse, somehow I cannot stand the thought of John looking at me like that and I haven't got the faintest idea why. He mentioned Sarah, that must be it, something went wrong at the surgery. 'Look here, John… ', he started and turned to face John again, but he was interrupted . 'No, I don't. I 'm going out. I'm not taking this, I've had enough'. John left and Sherlock stared after him, more confused than ever.

* * *

><p><strong>III<strong>

I t had grown dark, John had been gone for a long time. Sherlock sat in his usual chair near the fireplace, thinking, trying to relax, but it was impossible, something was missing. The disquiet he had felt all day had grown, grown into an almost impossible dimension. That was another 'new', something he'd never experienced before. What was it? He racked his brain, it was empty. That's how he imagined ordinary people felt like when going about their ordinary lives with their ordinary funny little brains. He'd once assumed that this must be relaxing but far from it, it was disconcerting. He shifted uneasily in his chair, but not one useful thought would come.

Where was he? Did he go to Sarah? Obviously. She was his 'girlfriend', but how would he know, that really wasn't his area. He had never even come near having a girlfriend or a boyfriend for that matter, he simply had no idea what people saw in that concept. Yes, he was used to getting reactions from people, people told him to 'piss off' quite regularly, at university he had been detested for telling others what they had been up to the night before. At best people considered him a freak, at worst a psychopath. That somebody could be fascinated by his intellect might happen, but the only person to voice those sentiments aloud had been John. Physical attraction though was quite another matter. For somebody so focused on the intellect like him, bodies and what you could possibly do with them (except for scientific purposes) never entered his equation. He was even oblivious to the fact that he turned heads when he entered a room, and not only Molly's. The thought that somebody might find him worth the emotional effort was alien to him. And deep in his mind there was a nasty little voice whispering: You might not be worth the trouble.

Still, he was astonished how much it bothered him. It bothered him that he had to think about Sarah and it bothered him even more that he had to think about Sarah and John. As a unit. Why? He looked at people with a clinical eye, a pure academic interest. But looking at John he had sensed that there was something else, something he had been thinking about for days now.

The image of John sitting next to him helping him relax flashed unbidden in front of his eyes again. John.

* * *

><p><strong>IV<strong>

John was still angry. Angry with Sherlock, angry with himself. He walked around the dark streets of their neighbourhood, never venturing very far from their flat. Why is that?, he thought. I don't want to go to Sarah, why not? - There is nothing there for me, nothing I want. She was charming, warm-hearted, pretty, but he was so reluctant to take a step closer to her.

But why am I so angry? Why am I so angry with Sherlock? I know him, I know how he ticks, how he works and that there is nothing beside his work. He cannot see other people's needs, he is blind to other people's lives. Does he have feelings at all? He once called himself a high-functioning sociopath, but John had always suspected him to have said that to rile Anderson. But as far as John knew there had never been anyone close to Sherlock and he had no friends. He had certainly never met one during the past months. It was difficult to imagine what friendship meant for Sherlock. Going out or having somebody to talk to? Well, nobody could match Sherlock's intellect and he couldn't for the life of him see Sherlock talking about the weather or the latest films. That was data he would never allow to enter his brain, he would most certainly delete it. But even Sherlock must have needs, longings, cravings. Suddenly John felt very sorry for his flatmate, a vision of a lonely life came up in his mind, a life apart from ordinary people, apart from real life.

He had never encountered anyone like Sherlock, he was undoubtedly the most confusing person he knew and the most brilliant and the most fascinating.

But today had been different. He was astonished that he had reacted so strongly to what was in fact Sherlock's usual self. He was still hurt to have been taken for granted when he wanted to be….. What ?

He turned around and walked back to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

><p><strong>V<strong>

The living room was dark save for the light that came from the small lamp on Sherlock' s desk. Sherlock was still in the same chair, musing, when John came back. Sherlock looked very forlorn and lonely. He looked up at John and his confusion grew. Why couldn't he read his face, his reactions, why couldn't he just see?

John slowly came into the room and walked up to Sherlock's chair. He didn't say anything, just looked at him as if _he_ was trying to read him. Why did he do that? Sherlock felt uneasy, he had never experienced somebody's close scrutiny before, certainly not from somebody as confusing as John. John came even closer. Uncomfortably close? Sherlock was nervous. What was he doing?

John got down on his knees in front of Sherlock and took his long slender fingers in his hands. Sherlock felt himself recoil slightly. What was that? Very tenderly John pulled Sherlock up to his feet and into a tight embrace. First Sherlock stiffened at the novelty of this experience, but then he felt himself relax a little. Tentatively he put his arms around John and let his head sink onto the smaller man's shoulder. Closing his eyes he slowly exhaled and finally relaxed. And then he could see.


End file.
